


Five out of Six

by yonnna



Category: Baccano!
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-30
Updated: 2019-07-30
Packaged: 2020-07-27 11:42:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20045422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yonnna/pseuds/yonnna
Summary: Pamela is gambling again, and she’s beginning to think that stopping had been a pipe dream. You never stop gambling. You never evenstart.





	Five out of Six

Pamela is a sharp shot in a game of marbles. Sharper than most men are with a gun, her dad tells her, half in jest — but it’s a good thing, she figures, because hunting season never does earn them much food, and the factory hasn’t paid him in a solid two weeks either. They act like she doesn’t notice, but she’s young, not _ deaf _ , and she would be able to hear the arguments from four blocks away, nevermind through the thin walls of their kitchen. (‘You should strike’, ‘you should quit’, ‘ _ like that’d help’ _ , ‘we could start our own business’, ‘ _ what sorta business could we run _?’ They chase each other in circles.) It worries her sometimes, but at least Pamela is a sharp shot. At least she has her own ways to fill her stomach when their cupboards are empty. 

She might not be winning bread, but Susanne Parker bets her the whole contents of her rucksack and loses – three apples, a day old sandwich, three pennies and an unused toothpick – and Tommy from down the street promises her seven bottle caps by the end of the week. She doesn’t care about bottle caps, but Betty’s grandmother collects them to use for buttons and jewellery, so Betty had already placed down a nickel to play against Pamela Saturday, all or nothing for her junkyard loot. It’s a gamble that Tommy will pay up in time, and it’s a gamble that she’ll win the match, but Pamela is a sharp shot.

Nine cents, three apples, and a day old sandwich. It isn’t much, but it isn’t bad for a week’s pay. The way her parents talk, she thinks it’s more than most men get for honest work these days. She even has a toothpick to clean her teeth after her modest feast, all proper. She feels like a big-shot for a few minutes that Saturday afternoon, picking pulp out of her mouth as she flicks her gamewinner marble across the table, bouncing it off her small stack of coins and back again until it knocks them over. She doesn’t miss once.

Her dad gets laid off from his job a couple days later. He never finds a steady new one, but they scrape by. One day Pamela packs up and leaves, not because she has to, not because they force her to, or even ask her to. She just decides they need to look out for themselves more than she needs them to look out for her.

She sticks to marbles for a while, and she wins every time. Honest work is more of a gamble than gambling could ever be. 

It’s a good thing she steers clear of it when she can.

* * *

The stakes aren’t always bottle caps and pocket change, but that never matters. She gets older, and the risks get higher, so she gets better -- at gambling, but also at cheating, because everyone knows that’s the real skill of it. Gambling, that’s just _ luck _. Only beginners rely on luck. 

Stepping into a casino for the first time feels right. Not _ good _ , like going back home might feel, but _ right _ . Not ‘right’ like a person feels when they find the place they belong, the place they feel safe, but ‘right’ like a person feels standing at the bottom of the hill they’re going to die on. She’s standing there at the threshold, looking up, just _ knowing _ that the path to the top has been paved out especially for her. What else is a person to do? Even if there’s a one-hundred foot drop at the end — she has to follow it. She’s supposed to be there and she shouldn’t be there but she _ needs _ to be. That’s the kind of right she feels.

The clatter of dice and the clunk of coins spilling across the tables give her a rush entirely unrelated to the nicotine-heavy smog they’re all breathing in here. She’s dizzy with bright, multi-coloured light bulbs, flying cards and scattering chips, black and red flashing on roulette wheels, guys and dolls dressed to the nines trying to win their ten figure. She’s an imposter in her glorified potato sack of a dress, her unmade face and her tightly knotted hair, but when she can afford to look the part she won’t be dumb enough to throw her money around. She reminds herself of that a few more times as she wanders the floor: the only thing these stiff-collared big-shots are flaunting is that they have more to lose than her. Nothing about a silk skirt makes someone a better gambler.

She finds herself a spot in a game of poker. A fella in a crisp white shirt and a pitch black bowtie looks her up and down when she sits across from him. He’s got a cigarette bouncing between his lips and when he parts them to chuckle she catches a whiff of the other five he’s been through that night. The smell doesn’t bother her any; she’s never smoked a day in her life, but she’s lived the life of a smoker vicariously through the dusky scent of her thrifted clothes for years now. She still sneers like it bothers her. She creases her brow deep enough, she hopes, to make him doubt that she has ever smiled.

First betting round, she raises. He eyes her, but says nothing. Second, she makes to match. He stops her before she can hand over her chips.

“You sure you can afford to do that, miss?”

Pamela pulls her worn-down sweater real tight around herself. She hears him chuckle again. She reminds herself that nice clothes don’t mean a thing. If she’s going to die on this hill she’s going to conquer it first, and she’s going to do it in the muddy boots that got her to the top.

She matches, and doesn’t say a word in response until the next round. She breathes a sigh and throws her chips into the middle of the table.

“All in,” she speaks shortly. The fella just snorts and calls her.

Now, it feels right to her, the way his smug expression sours when she lays down her hand, a pair of aces swapped in discreetly from her sleeve. It’s not ‘right’ like ‘good’, like wholesome or fair, but it’s ‘right’ like _ well-earned _, like stopping after the first stretch up that hill and looking back to admire the view. He sure looks dapper, she thinks, handing his chips over to her.

She cashes out her share of winnings later that night, four times what she came in with, and she’s sure to flash the man behind the counter a smile as she stuffs the bills right into the mud-stained pockets of her skirt. Pamela is no imposter, potato-sack dress or not; she’s a sharp shot. She’s a quick draw. 

It doesn’t matter how high the stakes are. She only makes gambles she knows she can win.

* * *

“Say you’re sitting on the roadside,” says Pamela. She takes a short sip from a tall glass, and watches her latest drinking buddy disappear into the crowd surrounding the bar. She’s not dressed the part for an upscale place like this, slacks and a button-up shirt, but she looks like she’s washed up in the past week. She looks like she owns a change of clothes. Maybe she doesn’t look like the kind of person you would find sitting out on the roadside, but times are tough and clothes are cheaper than cars, so maybe she does. No one would expect it, but no one would bat an eyelash. “Hitchhiking, y’know? But you don’t know where to, exactly. You’ve been there, right? Girl like you.”

She doesn’t elaborate on what sort of girl that is, exactly, but she doesn’t need to. The woman she’s with nods, then furrows her brow. “Sure, what about it?”

“So, you’re sitting there on the roadside, watching the cars go by, and you don’t even hold your thumb out ‘cause all you’re thinking is –” she takes another sip, crinkles her nose. Rum has never been her drink of choice, but the nice fella they had met here had bought it for her, so she can’t complain. She slides the glass across the table, offering it to the other woman. “_ What am I going to tell them if they stop for me _? You’re just sitting there, looking at the road ahead of you, and it must split off in a dozen directions… and not one of ‘em is where you want to go. What are you gonna tell them when they ask, Lana?”

“Just tell ‘em _ anywhere _. Wherever they’re going.” Lana shrugs. She gulps the rum and coke down like it’s water and wipes her mouth with the sleeve of her sweater. If Pamela looks like she could be out on the street with a little bad luck, Lana looks like she’s only in here off the street thanks to a lot of good luck — which isn’t too far off the mark, really.

“Yeah,” Pamela agrees. “But don’t you get tired of taking chances on _ anywhere _? What if you end up somewhere worse than where you started?”

“Better than waiting out all night ‘till the road’s empty and kicking yourself for _ not _taking the chance. What else are you gonna do?”

Pamela sits back in her seat, folding her arms across her chest. She raises her eyebrows, slides her gaze over to the currently vacant spot beside her where a set of keys hangs loosely out of a coat pocket. She does it pointedly enough for the other woman to notice, but Lana just stares blankly.

“Are you slow or something? Think about it. You don’t take the bum odds, you make better ones.” She tilts her head ever-so-slightly, a smug smile at her lips. She’s already eyed out the exits. She tries not to enter a room without eyeing out the exits. You never know when something might go wrong — or right. You never know when a rich idiot will leave his keys unattended next to you. When she speaks it’s with a calm confidence that finally, finally has Lana’s eyes widening in understanding.

“You could get ahold of a car.”

* * *

They must stay up all night. Pamela’s sober, mostly — sober enough to see clearly, to drive straight — and there’s a full tank of gas in the back. There’s a pocket full of bills to buy another when they run out. They pick a direction and they drive. It’s still aimless, but _ anywhere _is a more hopeful destination when they’re getting themselves there on their own accord.

They talk a lot about nothing. Pamela doesn’t learn much about Lana. She tells Lana the truth whenever she asks her questions, but she doesn’t turn them back at her. She knows where she found her; she doesn’t need to know where she’s been. Maybe it’s more selfish than that. Maybe she doesn’t _ want _ to know. The first few days after they had met, Lana had spent half her time on the verge of tears. She had shook in her sleep, declined food, talked in brief one, two, three word responses. Pamela doesn’t have any expertise in repairing people when they’re broken; she hadn’t known what to do with her except try to keep her out of danger.

She had come out of her shell, around Pamela at least, bit by bit. Now Lana’s upbeat, she’s stubborn and talkative — irritating even, sometimes. And that’s a relief, that’s good, because Pamela has never been good at walking on eggshells. She can talk to her like this, banter with her, drag her into trouble without feeling guilty. She can steal vans with her. Drive fast down winding roads with her without worrying that she’ll break when she steps on the brake pedal too hard. It’s in both of their best interest not to talk about the things that make her fragile. 

They talk about nothing instead, like how they’ll be rich one day. Like how they make a good team. Like how they could probably rob Bonnie and Clyde _ blind_.

“Hope so, in case you lose your glasses. How bad _ are _ your eyes?”

“Not… Not _ that _ bad.”

“That so,” says Pamela with a wicked grin, and leans over to the passenger seat to swipe them off her face. Lana fights her off, and the van veers right. Pamela grabs the wheel just in time.

“P-Pamela!” Lana shouts in her face. “Focus on the road!”

“Hey, at least I can _ see _ the road!”

When Pamela can barely keep her head up they pull over into an empty field and she rests until the sun glares through her eyelids. Then she sits up straight and starts to drive again, with the future a sure bet in her hands.

* * *

Pamela finds the camera wrapped up in a pressed white shirt and tucked away in the bottom of a suitcase, probably for safekeeping. They had found _ that _ in the storage locker of a train station a few towns back; no safekeeping is all that safe if they have a say in the matter.

Maybe it had belonged to a journalist before it fell into their hands – but a cheap one, because it’s a cheap piece of equipment, even Pamela can tell, plastic and boxy and nothing like those shiny new-spangled ones she has seen proper photographers using lately.

Not that she’s one to judge anyone for buying cheap equipment. She’s the one who had to _ steal it _.

Well, she takes credit for having stolen it. Neither of them could recall who had first claimed the suitcase, but Pamela had been the first to rummage through it, and when Lana catches sight of the camera she grabs it out of her hands and stares at it like it’s the holy grail, too transfixed to make any arguments to the contrary.

“I bet we could sell this for a fortune!” she half-squeals, practically bouncing for joy.

Pamela snorts.

“Oh, _ come on _ ,” she groans, squinting at their prize. If it could be called a _ prize _. From the looks of it, they had almost busted it the day they had swiped it – no doubt thanks to Lana’s usual lackadaisical handling. Unpacking it earlier, she could already count four dents, one for each side, which really adds to its motley, probably-found-in-a-dumpster charm. Even the cheapest reporter wouldn’t use this, she decides upon second inspection. Odds are it had been the last semi-valuable possession of some lowlife like them, on the way to pawn it off or trade it for a few days worth of food. Maybe they had stolen it, too. It wouldn’t surprise her.

It’s a piece of work — no, it’s a piece of _ crap _.

“They used to sell these for a buck a piece before things got so rough,” Pamela tells Lana, shaking her head. She reaches out to take the camera back. “Doubt we can even get half of _ that _ now. There’s no point.”

“Like we couldn’t use half a buck!” Lana retorted, hugging it closer.

Pamela sighs. It isn’t as though she could argue: they could use a _ penny _. Half a penny. A third of a penny.

They haven’t had much money between them since Pamela gave up gambling. It used to be their most steady source of income -- any money they managed to steal could be tripled in a few hours at a casino, especially if she cheated -- but she had sworn off it when they picked up Sonja. The girl’s a sharp shot, sharper than either of them, and with her backing up their robberies they wouldn’t have to risk roaming around casinos where the mafia could get them. That was what she had told Lana, anyway. Now that they’re practically penniless, that excuse looks as hollow as it had felt back then.

The truth is, Pamela takes one look at this fresh-faced kid and remembers that the stakes just climb and climb. One day it’s pennies and stale bread, the next it’s hundred dollar bills, the next it’s dignity and reputation and a clean criminal record, then it’s a bounty on their heads. They don’t have Sonja on a wanted poster yet, but if she had kept gambling it would’ve only been a matter of time. 

It’s not just the casinos she’s given up, either. Their robberies had been too much of a gamble before as well, the way they had been running them – they had taken too many chances. She’s done taking chances. No more relying on luck. She’s cautious now. She forces Lana to be cautious, too. As long as Sonja’s with them, they make solid plans. She’s done weighing what she has to gain with what she has to lose. She’s done accepting the trade-off. There are some stakes she won’t let herself play.

Pamela only makes gambles she knows she can win, and when she realised she couldn’t ensure Sonja’s safety in all of this, she threw out the dice.

But throwing out the dice means stealing gas just to get from one town to the next, means getting one meal a day _ if that _ . It means that Lana’s excitement over the prospect of having fifty cents to their name is not only understandable, but completely _ reasonable _. Fifty cents is the difference between feeding themselves and spending another week on the road with empty stomachs. A camera is a camera, however old, boxy, and dented. Someone somewhere probably needs it, even if it’s junk.

_ Their _ junk — maybe Pamela doesn’t want to admit to that part. Maybe despite her pragmatism she’s a little bitter. When is anything ever going to be theirs? For more than a day, more than a week, more than however long it takes for them to give it up for survival?

She knows the answer, and it makes her heart ache — so she shrugs, folds her arms over her chest, and caves.

“Yeah. You’re right, for once. We’ll pawn it off next town we pass through. See what we can get for it,” she says. At least as long as she lets Lana go on feeling like they’ve hit the jackpot _ she’ll _be in a better mood. That should make the drive more bearable — for a little while. Of course, once she realises this is just another thing they’re giving up for scraps, she’ll be back to grumbling. “Maybe if we’re lucky some freelancer type’ll need it badly enough to pay double. Gotta make a living somehow.”

Lana nods in agreement. She’s halfway to handing the thing back over to her when she freezes suddenly, eyes lighting up with excitement.

“Hey, wait!” She yanks her hands back again, pulling the camera to her chest. “Let’s take a picture first!”

“You’ve got the focus of a hummingbird.” Pamela rubs her temple, feeling her impatience grow. “Thought you wanted to sell it?”

“I do! But first –”

“I ain’t paying to have it developed, no matter how much we get for the camera.”

“I ain’t asking you to!” Lana huffs, “I don’t care about that! I just want…”

She trails off, ducking her head. Pamela stares.

“I’ve never had my photo taken,” she admits. “Never! Not even for a mugshot! And I just want – don’t you want to be remembered?”

Pamela crosses her arms over her chest. “_When we’re rich we’ll be able to get hundreds of photos taken,_” she says in a half-hearted imitation of Lana’s voice. She furrows her brow. “Isn’t that normally what you’d say in situations like this?”

“_ Shut up _ , Pamela,” she mutters. “You know…” _ You know we’re never gonna be rich _, she does not concede, but Pamela reads it in her face for a moment. “You know what I mean. I don’t wanna risk it.”

“Risk what? Never getting your photo taken?” She rolls her eyes. “It ain’t all _ that _.”

“I don’t wanna risk dying with nothing to show for it,” she mumbles. She pauses, clearing her throat. “I mean, they’re gonna need a picture of us to put in the newspaper when we get famous, right? Who’s gonna remember lowlifes like us if we don’t _ make ‘em _?”

Pamela does not answer immediately. She pulls open the door of the van and climbs inside, steadying her hands on the wheel.

“Alright,” she says. “Fine. But I’m _ not _ getting it developed, so don’t ask.”

* * *

They stop around midday in a field off a country road. Sonja is awake by then, and Lana fills her in on the discovery of the camera with unbridled excitement. Sonja’s own excitement soon matches it tenfold. Following a quick lunch, they wander out a bit in search of a sunny spot to pose in.

They take two pictures. One, by Pamela, of Lana and Sonja, then one, by Lana, of Pamela and Sonja. Pamela decides this is all they need, and makes to pack the camera away again, but Sonja stops her.

“You two next!” she announces in her sing-song voice, smiling brightly.

Pamela might have argued with Lana over it for days, but she cannot bring herself to argue with Sonja.

She and Lana end up standing shoulder to shoulder under the oppressive sunlight, each of them stiff as a board.

“Hey Lana,” says Pamela, quietly. “Give me some space, would ya? You smell like a dumpster.”

“Hey Pamela,” says Lana, softly. “Get the sour look off your face, would ya?”

“You’re one to talk!” Pamela yells. “Quit squinting! You look like an idiot!”

“_ You _ look like… an axe-murderer!” Lana yells back.

“What’s that supposed to mean, huh?!”

“It means y-”

_ Click _.

The still simultaneously, Lana with her mouth hung open mid-shout, Pamela with her teeth-bared and her sleeves half rolled up. They exchange a short glance, then turn to Sonja.

“Sonja!” Lana squeaks. “Why’d you take the picture? We weren’t smiling yet! Sonja! Take another one!” She begins brushing down her clothes. “Take another! We’ll smile —”

“I won’t,” mutters Pamela.

“Pamela!”

She turns abruptly, throwing her hands up in the air.

“I’m not standing her all day!” she says, brusk. “Let’s get a move on.”

* * *

Pamela is gambling again, and maybe that feels like old news to her because she knows she had never really stopped. This life they are living now, cushy as it is - it’s built on a gamble. They win comfort and security by tossing Sonja into the betting pool, and they win and they win and they win until one day they stop winning. Until they realise exactly what they’ve been wagering.

So Pamela’s gambling again, but at least in the casinos she’s gambling with chips and dice and cards, not with Sonja — not with the one thing she had sworn not to throw away on a bet. The more she gambles there, the sooner they can fold, pull out of _this _game and never look back.

Pamela is gambling again, and she’s beginning to think that stopping had been a pipe dream. You never stop gambling. You never even _ start _. Life is all gambles. Most people take the safe bets, they check and fold, never go all in, never risk cheating, just try and convince themselves they’re not playing the game, but they are. Everyone is. Her parents gamble their time away for paychecks that might never come at all — working for businesses that could shut down any moment, go bankrupt, run dry — because what other option do they have but to place a bet? You pay the blind or you sit out on the street. She has gambled home for the open road, a good night’s sleep for another ten miles, her safety, a few times, for anything it’ll get her. Weigh the value of an outcome and put something on the line for it. Work out how much you can risk losing in order to win. Walk away with what you can’t let go of today then come back tomorrow to risk that on another round. 

Now, she can sit around in that mansion all day long gambling her loyalty away to someone who could hurt Sonja -- or she can sneak off to the casino and gamble with everything she has to get them out of there, off to a different set of chances, better odds. She’s been dealt her hand. What else can she do? She places a bet. 

She finds the camera under a blanket and a tattered skirt. She’s cleaning out the van that morning – searching through it, if she’s being more honest, for anything, _ anything _ she can sell. Anything with just a little bit of value. A few bucks could get them out on the road again; she isn’t sure where to, but they had never been sure before, and they had always been fine. ‘Anywhere’ is a perfectly good destination as long as she’s behind the wheel.

They had been better off ‘anywhere’ than they are here, anyway. At least on the road they know the trouble they’re getting into. At least on the road she doesn’t feel like she’s handing Sonja over to the executioner. If something happens to her when they’re out there, living rough, it’s a consequence of the times. That feels simpler. She has always known they can only protect Sonja as much as they can protect themselves. There are limits to how safe _ anyone _ can be out there — but if something happens to her here, while they are _ safe _ and _ secure _ and _ comfortable _ , if something happens to her under the care of a senator , in a big, fancy mansion, that would be because they _ let _her come into danger. They were idiots to think they would be better off in the lion’s den than the jungle. Food and shelter mean nothing if your hosts are waiting to pounce and skin you alive.

So Pamela’s cleaning out the van. She had snuck out before Lana or Sonja had gotten up, and if anyone asks she’s just throwing some old trash out, not looking for anything, certainly not looking for a way out. The old hunk of junk doesn’t even have gas in it, she’ll explain (because she hasn’t bought any yet, because that’s last on her list, because that excuse needs to stay intact if she wants them to keep believing that they’re not going anywhere — until after they’re gone). 

And as she searches for nothing at all, she finds an old, beaten up camera. She examines it in her hands, turns it over slowly like it’s a precious artefact. It has four dents — one for every side. No one would buy it unless they really needed it, but the upside of living in such desperate times is that everyone needs something, and what they need they need like its sheer lifeforce. Somehow having nothing makes you feel like every chance to get _ something _ is your last, like you’ve gotta grasp for it with everything you have. Food or clothes or an escape route — or, for someone out there, a camera, maybe. She hopes.

She stuffs it into her bag just in case. 

* * *

It’s a few days later when she gets the chance to swing by a pawnshop. 

“So, uh,” Pamela mumbles, watching the clerk turn the thing around in his hands. “Is it worth anything?”

“Beyond the superficial damage,” he says, nodding to himself. “Yeah, it’s not in _ bad _condition, actually.”

“You better not be pulling my leg.”

“No, really. Looks like it'll work, and it’s even got most of a roll of film in it...” He sets the camera down. “I’ll give you twelve.”

“Dollars?” 

“No, cents,” he jokes. “‘Course dollars! It’s a good bit of kit.”

“Gee, uh, more than I was expecting to be honest.” Pamela scratches her head. 

“Where’d you find this, anyway? It’s a pretty old model.”

“It was, uh,” she clears her throat, then lies: “M-My grandpa’s. He left it to me when he passed away.”

“Ah, shame.” He frowns. “I always hate to see people selling off family heirlooms to get by. Tell you what, make it thirteen.” 

Feeling mildly ashamed for her dishonesty, but driven by need, Pamela nodded.

“Deal.” 

* * *

She gets a letter in the mail from the pawn shop a couple weeks later. She worries when she sees it that he’ll be asking for his money back or something, that he’ll have realised the camera she’d sold him was trash after all -- but it turns out to be a pretty friendly read. He’s writing to thank her, actually. Turns out he sold the thing within a week of buying it off her, and even turned a small profit. He says to come back any time if she finds anything else she thinks might interest him; Pamela thinks she might take him up on that offer once she’s done clearing out the van. 

At the very end of the letter he mentions that the film in the camera wasn’t _ completely _ blank after all. Apparently the new owner had found a few old photos on there, and managed to develop them and bring them back. When she looks in the bottom of the envelope, there they are -- three monochrome pictures. 

One of Sonja and Lana, one of her and Lana, and one of her and Sonja. 

She decides to put them in her wallet, right behind the thirteen bucks she got for the camera. Maybe they’ll be a sort of reminder next time she’s in the casino. A reminder that she’s gambling with something more precious than money. A reminder not to place bets she can’t win -- or at least to cheat when she does. 


End file.
